1. I was on my roof. The thin strip running in between the stories, with my window still accessible. I'd been moving the idea in my mind around like rolled bread, and now the significance of the saying was clear. Mashing bread was a mark of subdued insanity. And yet the ground was a mistakable pit of shadow and shine in the dew grass and I could jump. There is a dark void nipping at my ass, in my room. If I turn on the lamp, or the ceiling light, it will be a yellow bulb, emitting yellow light, and it will be the end of artificiality.

I think I'm having the conversation with myself this time, about god and alchemy. Soft gold was sure as hell no symbol of love, and I finally jumped, but all I remember was the string fixated from my head to knees was quivering back against the force of the faith almighty and kicking slates or two off my roof and a twang of gutter metal.

I can't find my eyeglasses in the wet lawn. But I'm out, I'm gone, and when I opened my strained eyes up at the suburban curbside tree, the ringing became apparent in my head. It's no wind, it's, fuck- my wrist flopping with no rotation, in an excruciating keel... (and the ring of blood rivers rushing into tight veins is making me hurt.) I stood up. I don't remember how with a sprained wrist and pain intolerable to the point that it's hot versus cold water indistinguishable.

It's been a half hour walk so far and you have texted once to ask where the hell I am.

It's been a forty five minute walk and you have called once to ask where the hell I am.

It's been over an hour and you are frustrated and I am here (eccomii!) and I am frightened and I am-

fucking you, or vice versa.

Your touch is difficult this time, much more angry than the first stupid time in a messy closet floor. There's nothing to be afraid of, you are a satan and I am a god foiling against man and I love... you. And this has always been just between us. But tonight I wish to die. I left my room, I left my house, I left my roof and window open, and my parents are asleep and there are village police bored and waiting to catch a minor out after curfew. I am sixteen years young and too broken to be fucked without supervision by someone three years older than me.

"You should get going soon."

"Can I tell you something?"

You look at me without an expectation for the only time I can remember.

"I want to kill myself."

It took repeating the statement a few times and interjections and force for you to, "What people don't know is the state you reach just before you could physically die, you regret everything. And it's the worst, most excruciating feeling that towers under the hell you dwell now."

You parted with me far enough at an intersection and it's three thirty a.m.. If you kissed me or hugged me or spat in my face it doesn't matter anymore because my memory tampered when I was driven insane.

You will be the man who has tobacco packed in paper, rolling around down and out your lungs, with the cosmos constantly in need of refill in your chest to feel alive. I need one of my cigarettes to inhale and exhale like a machine on my walk home until I can walk back into the void like it's full (and it's five a.m. and I am asleep for an hour on a Wednesday morning, and my mother has vertigo and I am ready-)

I criticize you in my mind when my choices entitled you to make yours. (- to walk to my school today.)

2. "What if we were like modern socialites in a new gallery? One of us with a sleek black dress on and a wrist flicked backwards as you frequent the cancer to your lips. And what if you said-"

"I like unforgiving art and unrealistic reality? That's all those dark semi-profound broads every actually say. Is this about you feeling like you're the subject of some great artist's interpretation? Because you're not Rachel, I'm just some high schooler screwing around with a spectrum of graphite and you are just-"

"Rose from the Titanic."

B lead for a quick signature. I'm done with this bullshit. I'm no Jack and she's no Rose and we'll never be together. She's curling her movements in a different way now,  like a snake with legs and she's rustling her hair down and waiting for the weight of her face to sink down to the edge of her eyelids. She rotates the skin up slowly so she's gazing right at me. What a silly attempt at seduction. But I fucked her anyway.

She's awake as the jay and I know she's just happy to be there in my arms, resting her chin against my breast. But she disguises her giggles poorly with sleep to say, "what are we doing? What mess have we created?" Happier than she's ever been in her entire life, only lacking my love.

I find that quicker than a flash, noi cambiamo! And to embrace that without relish is the worst feeling in the world.